


Intermezzo

by passing-fanciful (kageygirl)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 06:49:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2015196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kageygirl/pseuds/passing-fanciful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene for 3x12, "New York City Serenade." </p><p>Yesterday, she'd been a mom, with a job and a boyfriend and a good life.  Today, there are suitcases in her hallway, and a pirate in her living room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intermezzo

His hook is on her coffee table.

He hasn't even been wearing it here in New York, where, y'know, cops tend to frown on that kind of thing. But there it is, just sitting there next to the Xbox controllers. His flask, too, and they make a matching set: two pieces of normal, and two pieces of fucked-up fairytale world.

And one pirate asleep on her sofa, after spinning her world out of balance.

(He'd watched her pack last night, leaning against the jamb of her bedroom door. He never passed the threshold, but it was like his presence filled the room--his very _existence_ seeping into the air, changing everything she'd thought was true, was _real_. She'd come straight down from the roof and all but hurled her clothes into her suitcase, channeling the churning in her gut into vicious movement, part of her wanting to cry, part to hit him, part to throw her arms around him. When she finished with her own things, she slipped past him out the doorway and considered it a minor victory that she managed _not_ to do any of the above. He'd trailed her down the hall to Henry's room, a dark spot in her peripheral vision the whole time.

Only when there was nothing else to pack did she turn to look him in the eye.

"He turned into a _thing_ ," she said. Her throat hurt, and her voice came out low. "The guy I was dating turned into a _thing_ , and he _attacked_ me."

She wasn't sure what she was looking for--shock? Righteous anger on her behalf? Maybe even something like an "I told you so," some affirmation that her life was _fundamentally fucked up_ and how could she expect any different, and then she could yell at him and let the rage take over for a while, let it cover up the gaping ache she was trying not to feel.

Instead, he bowed his head. "I'm sorry, Swan," he said softly, and there was pain in his eyes. _For her_.

She clenched her jaw so hard it hurt. "I need another drink," she muttered, and stalked back to the rum.)

And now he's stretched out on her sofa, and his hook is on her coffee table.

She's watched him sleep before--in the hospital, waiting for him to wake up after getting hit by the car. In Neverland, too, on lookout duty, her eyes straying in the lonely hours, when she could indulge herself without him knowing and take her mind off Henry for a minute or two. When he slept, he didn't look younger as much as he looked _softer_ , without the glint in his eye and the sharpness in his smile. 

Or at least, he used to--there's a troubled set to his face now that wasn't there even when he had cracked ribs. Something that looks etched in, some pain written so deeply that not even sleep can smooth it out.

What happened while he was away?

She kneels beside him, being quiet and careful, despite the fact that her plan is to wake him up. It's early, and even in the city that never sleeps, there are times when everything seems fragile and muted, when the world feels very far away, and she doesn't want to break that bubble before she has to. She should just say his name to get his attention, but she needs to touch him, needs to be sure that he's real, that this isn't just some insane delusion.

(She knows it's not, but she needs to touch him anyway.)

She had been reaching for his shoulder, she would swear to it, but somehow her fingers end up skating over his forehead, the tension there drawing her in. She's barely touched him when his hand shoots up, catching her wrist in a hard grip, his blue eyes stormy as they snap open.

Until they meet hers. "Swan."

He relaxes his grip as soon as he recognizes her, but doesn't let go. Instead, his hand slides up, his thumb settling into her palm, fitting there almost too well. Her fingers curl, just a reflex, brushing over the textured metal of his thumb ring.

It is, she's startled to realize, the first time he's touched her since she had him arrested.

She's waiting for the innuendo, the smart remark, the smirk. She gets none of it. Instead, he's staring at her face like _she's_ the phantom who appeared out of the blue and turned _his_ life upside down. 

(Last night, they'd stopped before finishing the bottle; the prospect of driving for nine hours with a hangover wasn't all that inviting. She hadn't even really asked if he wanted to stay, had just grabbed a pillow and a blanket from the linen closet and tossed them onto the sofa. 

She felt his eyes on her all the way out of the room.

Sleep hadn't really been an option--she kept getting hit with different flashes, memories of real life duking it out with the Fantasyland Regina had left in her head. And it's been a _good_ life that she and Henry had, nothing like the cursed memories Regina had given everyone in Storybrooke.

Then again, most of them had been _happy_ to get their real memories back.)

And yet, even with him just down the hall, she hadn't thought about it, about him being there, _for her_. About how they'd parted, about everything that had happened before that, the connection that they'd started to build. Or, maybe, she just hadn't let herself remember, because she has too much _shit_ to process and she's going to need to keep it together for Henry, and she's _hurting_ \--

\--but he is, too, she can see it. It's something new, something that wasn't there before the curse, and yet there's a lived-in feeling to it, like an old injury that you learn to work around. 

Maybe it's having the memories of ten years of taking care of someone else, or maybe it's just knowing that this might be the last moment she gets to be selfish before she has to go and save the fucking world _again_ , but she wants to do something, wants to make at least one of them hurt a little less.

Without thinking too hard about it, she wraps her fingers around his.

"Hey," she says. It comes out low, and she swallows against the echo of need she sees in him. "It's morning," she says, kind of pointlessly, but she's not prepared for this, okay? This is one more thing she'd managed to forget.

How he looks at her, how he _sees_ her, sees the parts that are fucked up and broken, and doesn't flinch.

"So it is," he says, his voice rough with sleep. He lowers their hands to his chest, carefully, like he's afraid she'll bolt. And she's right on the edge, frankly; there's a gentle contentment in his eyes that's both gratifying (it worked, she made him feel better) and freaking her out (it was too easy, how could it be that easy?).

He smiles at her--just a smile, no hidden meaning, not trying to get a rise out of her, not flirting--and somehow that's what does it. It's just too much. This fucking fantasy pirate on her sofa feels so desperately, immediately real, when he should be the thing that's out of place, here in their nice, safe, _normal_ apartment (but was it _ever_ safe? dammit, her _life_ ). And she just doesn't know what the hell to do.

He draws in a breath and licks his lips, looks like he's about to say something--

\--and she can't, she just can't, not now. 

She shakes her head at him before he can speak. "Listen, you need to get out of here before Henry comes back. He probably thinks I got engaged to Walsh last night." God, his name is bitter in her throat. "I don't want to have to try to explain why there's some other guy sleeping on our sofa."

"Engaged?" he says, focusing on the part she _really doesn't want to think about right now_ , and she stands up quickly enough to give herself a little head rush, dropping his hand. 

He pushes to his feet, watching her. On second thought, why not twist the knife right now? Henry's going to ask, for sure, and she's going to need to be strong in front of him; anger has always given her that. "Yeah, the son of a bitch _proposed_ ," she says, and he steps in close to her. "So we're going to go to Storybrooke, find out who did this, and kick whatever ass needs to be kicked this time, all right?"

He studies her face for a moment, and then a slow grin seeps across his, draining off some of her anger. "What?" she asks, but it comes out softer than she intended.

"I missed you," he says simply, and all she can do is blink.

"And I don't doubt you for a second," he continues, and gives her a confident nod. She straightens up, and breathes out slowly. It's getting harder to stay mad, but it's okay--she's feeling more centered. This is what she does, right? They'll take care of business, then she and Henry can just come back and pick up their lives here. 

Speaking of, she glances at the clock, then back at Hook. "Seriously, you need to go," she says. "Come back in like an hour. Walk around the block or something."

"As you wish," he says, leaning in--and that triggers a Neverland flashback, vivid enough to make her breath hitch. But he simply reaches behind her, for his hook and his flask, and tucks them away under his coat.

For a second, she feels like an idiot.

Then he pauses before stepping past her, and breathes across her ear. "I _will_ be back for you later, Swan," he says, with a bold undercurrent that stills her where she stands.

And then he's gone.

She has to hustle to get ready and start breakfast, and she lets Henry think she overslept. It's easier than trying to explain, when she's not even sure what happened herself.


End file.
